Wrapped in Tin Foil
by pixeled
Summary: AU. In his hand he carried the meager box that was wrapped in, of all things, tin foil. Vincent had never had the necessity for gift boxes or wrapping paper—no one had ever stayed in his life long enough to warrant them.


"**Wrapped in Tin Foil"**

Every year the day Sephiroth was born went unnoticed. There might have been more scribbles on Hojo's chart, or an extra condescending pat to the growing boy's head, but other than that, there really was no difference. Sephiroth certainly didn't notice one and he'd never once asked about his birthday—he was disinterested because it had just never mattered in his short life.

It was sort of like how every human—every being, really—goes about busying themselves with the trials and tribulations of life, never noticing when they have come upon a day, every year, that signifies the day they will die.

Vincent Valentine, being a Turk, often watched people eat dinner with their families, husbands kiss their wives before leaving their houses, and all the dull pleasantries of people's lives before he—a mere man—sealed their fates. No longer would they walk around listlessly on the day of their death anniversary because it had come—they had died—and later it would pass so that another day marked a new closure on the book of life for another of Vincent's jobs.

Long ago Vincent had learned to become detached, never caring much for anything or for anyone. He'd learned that lesson before with Lucrecia.

But this was Lucrecia's kid, and he would be turning sixteen today.

He'd made a point to stay as far away from Hojo as possible while still staying a part of Sephiroth's life. It had been difficult, and it meant having to spend too much time away from the kid, but he was there once in a while, and it seemed he was even tolerated.

It was strange—he'd never acknowledged the kid's birthday before. Too much trouble, he figured. There'd be questions he'd have to answer, and he liked what he and Sephiroth seemed to have. Between them, there didn't have to be words—they just _were, _secrets and all.

But he deserved a birthday, so there really wasn't much of a choice.

He punched in his security code on Sephiroth's door and waited for the crackle of the intercom, over which Sephiroth's voice floated monotonously, slightly tinny because of the interference.

"Come in."

Vincent heard the hiss of the hydraulic door begin to slide open and then he was walking into Sephiroth's apartment even as the door was settling closed again. In his hand he carried the meager box that was wrapped in, of all things, tin foil. Vincent had never had the necessity for gift boxes or wrapping paper—no one had ever stayed in his life long enough to warrant them.

Sephiroth was staring up at him from his position on the couch looking strangely child-like. Even as a very small child—Vincent had never seen him as a baby—he always had the appearance of someone older; it wasn't that bologna about "old soul eyes", it was just something unique, something specific to Sephiroth.

Despite Sephiroth's ability to tolerate him, Vincent knew he would never trust him. But he didn't want that—it wasn't necessary. That didn't make this any less awkward for him—this strange and new ritual. It wasn't that he'd never given presents before, but that he had left that life behind only to feel its presence in this moment.

When he walked forward with the tin-covered box, he could feel mako green eyes follow him. But, there, it was finally out of his hands on the coffee table.

"What is that?" Sephiroth asked quietly.

"It's your birthday today, kid," Vincent replied coolly. Too coolly for the way his heart was thumping in his chest. "You're sixteen."

He'd saved the damn box and what was in it all these years. He'd saved it despite how it hurt to know that it was there in his apartment like a phantom part of her. He expected some sort of reaction, but Sephiroth wasn't even looking at the present—he was looking at Vincent. His eyes were as icy as ever and betrayed no emotion.

"Thank you," he said, his voice even. "You may leave now."

Vincent left. For a moment, he might have seen something strange flicker across Sephiroth's face. But it was just a moment.

It was around Lucrecia's third trimester that she had become hysterical—the visions consumed her nights first and soon overtook most of her days. Vincent always assumed it was the guilt of what she'd done. Before that, though, she was almost like every mother; She had shown Vincent the little black box with its raised gold lettering and inside of it was a pair of cufflinks. Even then the box looked old, though the cufflinks had been recently shined. Vincent had taken care to polish them up before he handed them over—they had grown dull over their years of idleness.

"_He may be a part of my research, and you may hate that, but he's still going to be my son. One day I'm going to give him these—one day when he's a man."_

Vincent retreated down the hall and felt pleased—a feeling he hadn't felt in a while. Even if Sephiroth never opened the box, he had given it to him. He had given him a piece of his mother.

"Happy Birthday, Sephiroth," he whispered as he pressed the button on the elevator.

_Author's Note: This is a sort of "what if" type of drabble. I have always wondered what Vincent and Sephiroth's relationship would have been like had Vincent never been locked away in that coffin of his. He'd probably be distant, but still want to keep tabs on Sephiroth despite his inability to connect with him. At least, that is what I think. _


End file.
